


Waiting

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Chill, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29190285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Just Connor updating.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

An orange-black ball falls through a white mesh hoop, and that should mean something, but the connection breaks off before Connor can register just what that is. Ninety-six percent of his processing power is all tied up in essential updates—a somewhat normal practice for an aging model. Connor shuts down to reconfigure regularly. Usually, he picks an unobtrusive corner to stand in, closes his eyes to be less unsettling for others, and devotes everything to that one function.

This time, he’s lying on the couch in Hank’s living room, his head cushioned in Hank’s lap. His cheek’s nestled against Hank’s plush thighs, his delicate synthetic skin stimulated by the scratch of Hank’s old jeans. He’s on his side, eyes half-open and dazedly semi-taking in the television; Hank’s watching the Detroit Gears play—

Connor doesn’t know what the game’s called. He’s distantly aware that he usually would know. He’s kept a small fraction of himself open during the automated process. He’s still semi-conscious, just enough to register Hank’s thick fingers slowly stroking through his hair. Hank’s blunt fingertips gently trace his scalp, brushing stray strands behind his ear, toying with those few tufts that always curl against his forehead. He doesn’t think Hank’s paying much attention—he’s lost himself in the television while Connor’s lost in his own mind. But it’s become such a _natural_ thing for Hank to touch him. It’s as subconscious as the times where Sumo wanders over at dinner and Hank pets him under the table. It’s just as warm, just as loving, just in a different way. Sumo’s sleeping on the other side of the coffee table, like Connor should be—or the android equivalent. 

It would be more efficient to dedicate that last four percent to the update. But then he wouldn’t be aware of Hank’s languid breathing and the steady thrum of his heart. A beer bottle rests in Hank’s other hand, half-empty—another thing Connor’s keeping rack off. But Hank’s been doing better lately. He doesn’t drink more than one bottle a game. He takes another sip overhead, and Connor hears the swallow, takes in the satisfied sigh, notes the way Hank’s fingers minutely tense up in his hair, then loosen again. Hank’s back to stroking him afterwards. Connor sort of wants to turn into the touch but doesn’t have enough control over his body. 

The stray, fractured thought flutters in—what if this is what it’s like for most androids, non-deviants outside of the movement; beings half aware of what’s going on around them but pliant to a human’s whims. In the moment, Connor can’t think of it in negative terms. He doesn’t mind being at Hank’s mercy. He trusts Hank implicitly. He’s lying in Hank’s lap instead of standing in a charging station because he feels _safe_ when he’s in Hank’s arms.

That doesn’t make any logical sense. Connor’s technically stronger than Hank is. Usually more alert. More durable. Maybe that’s something the update will catch—whatever’s gone so wrong in Connor’s program that makes him melt when he’s around this one particular human. 

Sumo snorts, legs kicking out. He must be having a bad dream. Hank says dogs can dream, but Connor can’t find any data on it. Then Sumo pushes up and yawns, big and slobbery and sweet. He pads over to the couch and starts sniffing at Connor’s collarbone. Connor did try a bit of Hank’s cologne earlier—maybe he smells different. 

He wants to pet Sumo, but the order doesn’t go through all the way, winking out somewhere around his shoulder. Hank rumbles, “Leave ‘im alone, Sumo. He’s charging.”

Not quite charging. Close enough. Sumo makes a whining sound like he understands and diverts to the kitchen, puttering out of Connor’s line of sight. Connor can feel his blush subroutines engaging for no reason and shifts his eyes, peering up at Hank. Hank’s looking down at him, wearing a thin frown like usual, but Connor’s studied him long enough to see the intense affection in his eyes. 

The television crackles with new noise, and Hank’s gaze turns back to it. Connor resumes looking at nothing in particular. 

The updated finishes. His system reboots at once, consciousness flickering for half a second before it’s all reset, data pouring in from every sensor and new readings scrolling past his eyes. It settles down in another three beats of his thirium pump.

Hank must’ve seen Connor’s rapid blinking, because he mutters, “You doing okay, Con’?”

“I’m finished,” Connor answers. Hank’s hand starts to withdraw, but Connor adds, “May I remain here longer?”

The hand comes back. “Of course.” 

The ball falls through the basket again—this time, Connor registers the score. But it’s for the wrong team. Hank swears under his breath, thighs tense beneath Connor’s cheek. 

Connor rides out the game, this time enjoying one hundred percent of Hank’s reactions, the feel of him and scent of him, every noise he makes, the warmth his body generates. Then Sumo wanders back and Connor pets him, glad to be awake and working.


End file.
